


Nameless In The North

by OctaviaPeverell



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Half-Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctaviaPeverell/pseuds/OctaviaPeverell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was the balm to his frostbite. </p>
<p>Written for the Livejournal ASOIAF kink meme for the prompt: Jon/Sansa; Scars.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nameless In The North

She is too close to him, her breath, smelling of honeyed wine and dinner’s venison, invades his nose. It is her moist heat against his face that makes him forget the perpetual frost in his boots and the constant numbness of his fingers. It is a heat he wants to slip his tongue into and coax into fire and molten steel. Jon wonders what it would be like to slip _into_ her, whether she would be just as hot and damp. 

“There,” she says, and her breath whispers across his face, through the bandages she has been tending to. “I fear there shall be a scar but not too noticeable; I have taken care to make the stitches close together.”

Sansa sits back, taking the warmth with her, though her hands still trace his forehead, as if to make sure no new wounds will appear spontaneously. Finally, she nods to herself and his disappointment is palpable when her hands settle into her lap. 

“Do be more careful next time, Jon; I shan’t always be here to patch you up.” Her smile is knowing and mildly amused but she’s uncomfortable too; he can see it in the way the corners of her lips twitch and her eyes flicker to the fireplace as if drawing strength from it as if she is her very own Dragon Queen. 

“Do you want me to leave?” she asks finally, looking up cautiously from beneath her lashes, as he realises that he has not spoken to her since she arrived at Castle Black a fortnight ago. 

Guilt takes him then, and he reaches over to take her hand. “No, Sansa,” he tries the name on his tongue, the first time he has said it in years. She had always been ‘Half Sister’ or ‘Lady Stark’ once Catelyn had died. Now she is Sansa, grown, pretty and with a will as cold as stone that it is almost hard to recall when she had been the soft-spoken girl who sang and read poetry and had once tried to teach him how to stitch his own buttons. “I apologise for my absence. I have not been as accommodating as I should be.”

She shrugs, another notion that is foreign on her figure. “Do I remind you of my mother?”

“No,” he reassures her, rubbing his thumb on her knuckles before letting go. “Lady Catelyn would never have come to see me, or fix my injuries.”

“She was not very gracious to you,” Sansa says quietly, and then, “ _I_ was not very gracious to you.”

“You were never cruel to me.”

“I rarely spoke to you enough to be cruel. Silence is sometimes cruel enough, do you not agree?”

Jon chuckles and it is a hollow sound. “Your courtesies would not have allowed you to be cruel. You were always a fine lady.”

“Are you saying my mother was not?” 

He is almost afraid that he has insulted her, but there is a growing smile on her lips and then she laughs softly and he cannot help but follow, feeling warm this time. 

“I was a bastard daughter once, and I was not treated like a lady.” Her eyes are sorrowful and she leans forward in her seat, her red hair falling over her shoulder. “On behalf of everything that you have suffered, as a _child_ growing up no less, I am truly sorry, Jon. I should have known kindness and compassion.”

But Jon cannot bring himself to feel sorry for himself; instead, his heart goes out to her, for what the Lions did to her, for what Petyr Baelish did to her and made her do, for her living in fear and struggling to care for a sickly boy in the Eyrie and frightened women at court. He is bold enough to reach out and cup her cheek and she turns her face into his hand, seeking comfort. He almost feels as if he is brushing away the tears she will not let herself shed and wonders how long it has been since she has cried, or whether perhaps she does it late at night, when all is asleep and when there are no eyes to see her. 

“It’s all right,” he murmurs, breath catching when she smiles wanly and presses a kiss into his palm. Her eyes meet his and he cannot stop himself when he brushes his thumb across her lips. She does not look away, nor does she stop him. In fact, he finds it hard to read the expression on her face; it is a myriad of thoughts flickering across every feature, a conversation taking place on skin rather than by words. 

“It is late, Jon; perhaps you should walk me to my room.” The whisper of her voice is like incense invading his senses. She stands slowly and moves to his desk where she blows out the fire of his lamp. She moves to the door and slips on _his_ black, fur coat, beckoning him to come as she gazes at him over her shoulder. 

The walk to her room is short, right down the hall from his, and there were no dangers to be found within that distance, not with Ghost outside who had paid more attention to Sansa than any other being at The Wall. Ghost settles down on his haunches when Sansa emerges from Jon’s room, and she smiles, only having to bend down a little to pull him into her arms. 

“Hello, Ghost,” she whispers, burying her face in his neck. She murmurs something then, a lost sound so quiet he almost believes he doesn’t hear it - _Lady_. 

The corridor is stone cold and their breaths cloud the air as she steps away from the direwolf, stroking him one last time before Jon places a hand on the small of her back and leads her to her room. 

The fire blazes high in her room and it is the only source of light. Her room is one of the bigger ones, cleaned freshly for her arrival. He has just begun to linger in the doorway when Sansa turns around and steps up to him, so close their noses almost touch. She reaches behind him and shuts the door, trapping him in. 

And he knew this would happen – of _course_ he knew. And did he not want it in the first place? 

“Do you want me?”

His fingers card gently through her loose hair as he nods. 

“Then may I take you?”

The impact of her words is a comet to his heart and he must have nodded for she suddenly reaches up with both hands to pull him down to her lips. His gloves hands grip her small waist, fingers hard on her hipbones, and he wants to press his hard length into the juncture of her legs, unmindful of the fact that they have yet to undress. There is something erotic, he thinks, of fucking her through her clothes, grinding his hips into hers, licking her through her smallclothes. 

He forces his tongue into her mouth and she whimpers desperately, her hips rising to meet his. It is ecstasy to have her small body against his, this _woman_ , this Queen of the North in her own right. She needs no crown for she is regal enough without it; she needs no title for the moving ice within her veins is as undeniable as a snowstorm. 

Jon almost groans when she pushes him against the door, breaking the kiss soundly and stepping away, her eyes fierce yet a little uncertain as she begins to undo the laces of his tunic, removing the layers one by one until all he stands in is his breeches, leather, warm and tight against him that it is nearly painful. Sansa very nearly goes to her knees to remove his boots but he catches her arm and pulls her up. 

“You kneel to no one,” he says sharply, pulling her in for a long, tender, patient kiss that leaves him impossibly hotter than before. He steps out of his boots by himself and she is swaying in his arms, her lips like butterflies on his jaw and neck. She had been tall as a young girl, before her flowering, but she is smaller than him, significantly so, and Jon finds it endearing how she has to rise up on her toes to reach him even though he has bent down for her. 

Her body quivers under his hands as he slips a knee between her thighs and _presses_ just slightly. The moan that escapes her mouth is deep and surprised and _he_ is surprised at the blush that rises up her face as she gazes up at him with wide eyes. He does it again, harder, and her eyes slide shut, lips parted in a soundless cry and her face beautifully anguished. 

“ _Jon_ ,” she gasps, neck bent back beautifully and he presses his lips to her fluttering pulse and sucks at her skin. He can smell the simple, clean scent of the soap she used during her bath, as well as _himself_ from his furs, and he thinks that he likes having marked her, likes it even more when her hips roll, grinding into his thigh. Somehow his coat has slid down her arms and he pushes it off her so it lands with a muffled sound on the floor. 

“Look at me,” he says, and she opens her eyes, bright and feverish with lust and longing and something _more_ that he cannot place. Sansa’s fingers absently trace the muscles on his back and he shivers. “I would see all of you, Sansa.”

She swallows then and her blue eyes fall to his chest as if she is embarrassed, but he has heard what the dead Lion prince did to her in King’s Landing, in front of an audience. Anger coils like a snake ready to strike but then she raises her eyes and presses their foreheads together, smiling unsurely as she steps out of her boots and kicks them somewhere behind him, and the notion is so strangely _Sansa_ and _not Sansa_ that he has to steal another kiss, unable to hide his grin. 

“Undress me?” 

Sansa turns in his arms and he is presented with a cascade of red hair that flames in the firelight. As gently as his frost-callused hands can, he gathers her hair and pushes it over one shoulder. The laces seem to almost constrict her already slender body and he tugs at them one by one until the dress opens from the top, peeling back its petals to reveal the white shift beneath. The dress falls to the ground and Sansa unties one of her underskirts herself and lets it slip off her hips. He bends to her neck, to inhale her being and she obediently tilts her head to the side, sighing, one hand on her waist and the other on her stomach, rubbing circles so the thin material of her shift bunches in his hands, raising the hem higher until his fingers brush her skin. 

He licks a trail from her shoulder to the area below her ear and she giggles quietly, turning her head to the side, their noses bumping. “That tickles,” she says, and then kisses the tip of his nose before he can plunge his tongue back into her mouth, making her moan appreciatively. His one hand rises beneath her shift to capture her breast and she gasps into his mouth when he brushes a nipple, the bud hardening between his fingers. Both his hands cup her then and she bites down on his bottom lip, kissing it better a moment later, murmuring a small, half-hearted apology that he drowns out with his lips. 

It has been years since he had Ygritte and he cannot remember what it felt like to have a woman’s body beneath his hands. Sansa is like liquid steel that he wants to shape, to caress and create and she sighs so beautifully as his hands continue their artistry before one finally slips into her smallclothes and she cries out when his fingers meet her damp folds. 

“Oh, gods, _Jon_!” 

“Shh, Sansa, I’ll take care of you.”

And he does. 

Her legs are giving way but he holds her tightly against his chest, longing to feel her skin against his, as his fingers circle the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs. Her hips are rolling into his now, and her cries are coming in time with her quickening breath. His name is on her lips more and more often and how he would love to bury himself into her now while she thrashes and weeps and sings. 

“Jon!” she cries, her body stiffening, and he continues to milk her for all she is worth as her wetness slides between his fingers. 

Finally, she slumps back against him, breathing heavily, her upper lip glistening with sweat. When she opens her eyes, she is smiling at him and he savours her heavy blush as he brings his fingers to his lips, licking them slowly to taste her. 

“You shouldn’t-”

“I want to,” he murmurs, kissing her damp temple. 

She must feel his hardness pressing into his back then, for her eyes widen and her hand slips down to make sure for herself. He groans and closes his eyes, restraining himself from pushing into her hand like an animal. 

Sansa bites her lip and then she takes a step away from him, her back to him as she slowly pushes down her smallclothes, not looking at him as her hands grip the hem of her shift. 

“You don’t-”

“I want to,” she replies, smiling shyly over her shoulder. “We both do. Only I…I’m not good at…” her voice trails off and she looks away, swiftly pulling the remaining garment off and throwing it to the floor. 

He is breathless at her bare, shapely body. There are faint scars crisscrossing her back, silver now, and only exalting her higher as a winter queen. He traces one and kisses it, then another and another until he is on his knees. When she turns, his arms come around her waist and he presses his face into her abdomen, kissing her skin. 

“You are beautiful, Sansa Stark,” he says reverently, looking up at her. 

“As are you, Jon Snow.” 

There is nothing but truth and affection in her voice as she cards her fingers through his thick, dark hair, and her eyes are bright and lovely and he wants her _now_. 

“Jon?” Her voice is a bell in the night. “Take me to bed.”

When he stands, he brings his coat with him and drapes it around her shoulders, lifting her up in his arms and smiling at her startled laugh. He lays her down gently on her bed and just stares at her for a while, taking in her enticing, naked form sprawled out in his coat, limbs white against the dark furs and the deep sheets. Her hair is fanned around her, tendrils falling across her breasts. Sansa smiles beguilingly lifts a hand up, which he takes in his and allows himself to be drawn towards her. He rests on his forearms above her and strokes her hair lovingly, wondering how it could have come to this. 

Then she is kissing him and all thoughts are lost to the winter winds outside. Her fingers are pulling at his laces and her tongue is battling admirably with his. He lets her take control for a while before pulling her up into his lap, her knees either side of his thighs. She has slipped her arms through the sleeves of his coat and when her hand closes around his length, he groans, not realising she had released him. 

She watches his face with something akin to wonder and awe. “You…it’s so warm,” she breathes, sliding her hand up and down at an agonisingly slow pace. He hisses through his teeth. 

“Because of you,” he groans, thrusting into her hand. “Oh, Sansa.” Her name is like a blessing on his tongue and he has to repeat it again and again. 

Her grip becomes tighter and her strokes faster and then she is shifting and when Jon opens his eyes, it is to her blue eyes boring into his. She has led his cock to her entrance and whatever he is about to say is lost in pleasure when she slides down his length. There is little resistance, and any that exists is from her own trembling insides and her own will to control herself. He does not ask when or to whom she lost her maidenhead, nor will he until she tells him herself. Part of him is grateful if only for the fact that he is not hurting her; that he can make her happy, that he can thrust into her and hear her moans and pleasured whimpers. 

Her tightness is unlike anything he had thought it could be. The heat enveloping his cock is all Sansa, as she rises and brings her hips down, sending pleasure shooting through his veins. She rides him slowly and he buries his face in her neck, gripping her hips and helping her move. He meets her hips with his own thrusts and she is breathtaking when her lips part in a gasp, her eyes never leaving his. 

“Make love to me, Jon. Just love me,” she pleads breathlessly and how can he do anything other than comply?

His thrusts are faster but not hurried and he moves just to see her face contorted in pleasure, to hear her exquisite cries and to watch her eyes as he takes her, his coat hanging off her shoulders and only making her look all the more ravishing. It is only her beautiful cries, his own grunts, skin slapping against skin and the sinfully delicious wet sounds coming from her that fill the room. He is close now and so is she from the way her voice has risen in both volume and pitch. 

He knows he should pull out; he should not spill within her and get her with child, but she seems to have sensed his slight hesitation for she takes his face between her wet hands and brings their lips together. 

“Come within me, Jon. I want you to.”

“I shouldn’t,” he hisses when thrusts into her particularly hard, his body heeding nothing his mind is telling him. “You might-”

“I _need you_ , Jon.”

Whether it is the desperation in her voice, or the way she rises and falls like the swell of the sea, or how her legs are wrapped tightly around his hips, her insides clenching around him as she comes, he is suddenly spilling himself inside her, calling her name out loud, his movements erratic and fierce. 

“Sansa, Sansa, Sansa, my Sansa,” he chants against her whimpering lips. 

They fall slowly as one and Jon carefully lays on his side, Sansa held protectively in his arms. She tucks her head under his chin, her breath hot on his bare chest. He tiredly kicks his trousers all the way off and brings the furs and blankets around their rapidly cooling bodies. 

“Mmm,” comes the sound of her voice, reverberating through her slender form. “Thank you, Jon.”

He breathes a laugh and kisses the top of her head. “Thank you, Sansa.” He has slid one hand through his coat so his hand can stroke her bare back, rubbing up and down her skin with a kind of gentleness he has forgotten in his time up here. 

“Are you still worried you might give me a child?” she asks, soothing like water. There is no worry there, no fear of him, no anger. 

He does not answer for a long time, wanting to enjoy the girl who has loved him this night, whom he has loved back. Her presence this far north has been a balm against his soul, and he had been afraid to shatter it by speaking. But the way she moved through Castle Black, smiling even at the vilest of offenders with Ghost at her side, she had been, and is, like a queen he wishes only to worship and honour. 

But he has taken the Black. He has no family, no child, no woman – only brothers. 

“I once promised myself that I would never give a woman bastards, that no child would suffer as I have suffered, that I would not leave any woman to shame.”

She moves up so they are face to face, and smiles beautifully, sleepily. “I would not be shamed. I am a woman who has been married to more than one man, passed around like a used trophy. No man wishes for me to be his wife for fear it would mean his death. When I finally reach Winterfell, when I am finally home, if I am with child, it could belong to any number of husbands; no one would ask, no one would care, not with Bran as Lord and Rickon as his heir. I would be Winterfell’s castellan, nothing more, but I would be a woman loved by her child and by her brothers.”

“I should be there,” he says, kissing her fingers. “I should be there to watch over you and protect you.”

“From whom, Jon?”

He shrugs helplessly, wishing he could hold her closer still than he was already. “From everyone. I could love you.”

Sansa laughs, but it is not with spite; Jon thinks it almost sounds sad. “Two bastards in love.”

He laughs too then, caressing her soft cheek. “And what would a child of two bastards be?”

Sansa really smiles then and kisses him slowly, _lovingly_. 

“Loved.”


End file.
